


In Another Time, In Another Place

by My_Alter_Ego



Series: White Collar Discussions [22]
Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Conflict Resolution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Mourning, Multi, Rough Sex, Surveillance, The Future, love-hate relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: When Peter discovers that Neal faked his own death and is still alive, the awestruck Federal Agent doesn’t know whether to be happy or angry. His emotions are all over the place and he has to make a decision that will impact both of their lives. Post-Series and final fictional story in “The White Collar Discussions” Series
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke, Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Series: White Collar Discussions [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472945
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	In Another Time, In Another Place

After the memorial service for Neal, and after Peter had painfully cleared out June’s loft, a bereaved man tried to find his footing once again in a world that had become terribly empty. Neal’s death was like the phantom pain in a limb that had been severed. The ache was still there even if the body part was no longer attached. The arrival of his son had lifted Peter’s spirits. It was an affirmation that life went on, and that child’s name was an honored testament to a valued friend whose life had come to a premature end. Peter thought his soul was finally mending after being ripped apart, but Mozzie’s impromptu little visit opened up that wound and left him feeling raw once again. It had started a stupid scavenger hunt, courtesy of a wine bottle cork with a number written on it. A storage locker turned Peter’s world upside down, and now he wasn’t quite sure how to term his tumultuous emotions. Elizabeth tried to help him sort them out.

“You know why Neal did what he did,” she said pragmatically. “He knew the government would never have let him out of their clutches, so he took matters into his own hands.”

“But the way he accomplished that agenda was hurtful,” Peter argued. “He could have told me what he intended to do.”

“Peter,” El sighed, “you know that you would have tried to stop him. When all is said and done, you know that you believe in the system, even if it is sometimes duplicitous.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have stopped him,” Peter protested morosely.

“Hon, even if you didn’t try to stop him from faking his death, Neal would never have wanted you to be an accomplice to his charade. He wouldn’t have wanted you to compromise your integrity or jeopardize your career. He was trying to protect you just like you tried to protect him all through his tenure on the anklet.”

“So, are you trying to take his side, El?” Peter said irritably. “Neal put me through hell with grief. I can’t forget that.”

“Peter, don’t deny it. You were still grieving, even after over a year,” El sighed. “Maybe Neal was wise enough to know that you would continue to mourn him until you managed to achieve some closure. Perhaps this was Neal’s way of putting your mind to rest by letting you know, in a very roundabout way, that he is alive and living his new life in Paris. He left all the clues to the puzzle in a storage unit instead of getting rid of the evidence. I think it was always his plan to let you in on his secret when the time was right.”

“Or maybe he wants to flaunt it in my face that he managed to fly the coop with no one being the wiser,” Peter replied harshly. “He left me, El—me, his supposedly best friend. That is beyond cruel. If he were standing in front of me now, I think I’d probably strangle him with my bare hands.”

Elizabeth was quite aware of the unusual relationship shared by Neal and her husband. It went far beyond friendship, and that was why this was such a hard truth for Peter to accept. Their past had reached into the realms of love, metaphorically as well as physically. Somehow, El had come to terms with that. Peter had a big heart with enough love for all the really important people in his life. Besides, Elizabeth cherished the charming, if wayward, felon as well. You couldn’t help but be pulled into his magnetic orbit, and that fondness was a kind of love in its own way.

El took a steadying breath. “Peter, you need to deal with this startling development or you’ll never truly be at peace. Find Neal—it's what you do, Hon. Confront him about his motives and give him the benefit of the doubt before you close the chapter in the story.”

Peter was suddenly petulantly stubborn. “Maybe I don’t want to see him again—ever!”

“Don’t tell yourself any lies, Hon,” El scoffed. “Stop tearing yourself apart with doubts and questions and just do what you know you must.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, in the end, Peter heeded his wise wife’s advice. He morphed into “Peter the Archeologist” on his home computer. He started his discrete digging with inquiries at the Louvre in Paris, and it was surprisingly easy to obtain the information informing him that the French museum had recently hired a new security head by the name of Nicholas Harding. Peter was shocked that his former partner, usually so devious and slick, had made the breadcrumbs so easy to follow. Nicholas Halden/Nicholas Harding—wasn't exactly a stretch. Maybe El was right, and Neal wanted Peter to find him. The burning question was why now?

After a lot of angst and soul searching, Peter took a week’s vacation from the Bureau and used the transatlantic ticket El had purchased for him on Air France. He continued to have second thoughts about pursuing this quest, even when he reached Charles De Gaulle Airport. Of course, being a glass half-empty kind of guy, Peter let his thoughts meander down some very dark roads during the seven-hour flight. Maybe Neal was sick, or even dying from some incurable disease, and he wanted to atone for his past sins before his real passing. Or maybe he was incarcerated in some French prison because he had returned to his old criminal ways and had been caught. Everybody’s luck ran out sometime. Maybe it was much simpler. Perhaps Neal wanted Peter to see him living the hedonistic high life in some fancy apartment on the Avenue Foch, far out of reach of the FBI. He probably thought he could count on Peter’s silence because their previous romantic trysts were his bargaining chips to ensure his safety from the long arm of the law. Peter continued to have all kinds of somber and distressing thoughts. He just couldn’t let himself believe that Neal was now beckoning because he missed Peter and was suffering the pain of loss as deeply as Peter over the last year.

Peter still hadn’t reached any hard and fast conclusions, even after the huge airbus touched down on French soil. El had thoughtfully planned ahead and secured a room in a modest hotel near the center of the city. Peter made a brief appearance to deposit his luggage with the concierge and, ignoring jetlag, set out for the Louvre. He patiently stood in the slow-moving queue of patrons until he was finally walking through the iconic glass pyramid. He wanted to keep a low profile, so he had no federal credentials that tied him to the Bureau. This was all on the downlow, and to any inquisitive eyes, he was just another American tourist on holiday in France.

However, Peter did have a plan, of sorts. He went up to the first uniformed guard that he saw. “Sir, could you perhaps tell me where I might find the head of security?”

He was met with a blank stare until that individual gave a Gallic shrug of indifference. This petulant Frenchman was forced to endure brash Americans day after day, and they presumptuously imagined that everyone spoke English. So, he merely pointed to the rack of headphones near the lobby that could be rented in many foreign languages to give the listener a walking tutorial of the artwork within the many rooms.

Peter was undaunted and soldiered on yet again. “Monsieur, pardon. Où is your boss—the head of sécurité?”

The guard now looked contemptuous, and Peter certainly didn’t want to create a scene. Fortunately, an older dark-skinned gentleman sauntered over and came to Peter’s rescue. “Sir, I may be of some assistance,” he said in perfect Oxford-like English. “I can perhaps translate for you with this rather reluctant fellow.”

“I would be very grateful,” Peter hastily replied. Keeping up the façade, he explained that he was the head of security at a small museum in Chicago and wanted to discuss the Louvre’s impressive system with the man who designed it. That man’s name was Nicholas Harding.”

After a rapid flurry of back and forth dialogue between the guard and the translator, the Oxford man turned to Peter. “I am told that Mr. Harding does not actually stay on the premises. All this man knows is that he has an apartment somewhere in Montmartre. Perhaps the people who work in the main office may be of more help to you.”

“Merci, thank you, my friend,” Peter quickly replied, “I should have thought of doing that myself.”

Of course, Peter had no intention of making his presence known to people who could possibly alert Neal that some stranger was looking for him. He just had to find another way to run his former partner to ground. Peter caught up on his lost sleep that night, and set out the next afternoon for the historic district of Montmartre, dominated by a hill where the white-domed Basilique du Sacré-Cœur held majesty over the streets below. His guidebook made him aware that many great artists from the past like Renoir, Monet, and Degas has once lived here as they fashioned their masterpieces. Of course, Neal would feel right at home in this creative atmosphere.

Peter found a quaint little plaza behind the massive church that offered tempting cups of strong French coffee in demitasse cups and intimate open-air bistros set along the cobblestones that served sumptuous bread, cheese, and salads. Peter chose one with a panoramic view of the area, and that is where he kept watch for the next three days, ordering croissants for breakfast and crusty baguettes with cheese and ham for lunch. While sipping his coffee, he lazily observed budding, hopeful painters set up their easels and attempt the next great work of art in the perfect light. Peter knew he could be more proactive, but inertia seemed to have bound him to his chair, book and sunglasses in hand, watching and waiting.

Finally, Fate took pity on him and rewarded him for his tenacity on day four when he suddenly felt compelled to scan his surroundings. He was not really surprised when he spied the tall figure with dark hair slip into a bakery across the square. Peter didn’t need to see the high cheekbones or the finely chiseled jaw and turquoise eyes to know it was Neal. He recognized the man in the black jeans and turtleneck by his walk—the infamous Caffrey strut radiating confidence and a sense of savoir-faire. Just minutes later, the con man reappeared with a white sack in his hand and his arm around an older smiling woman. He gave her a peck on the cheek and then left the area. Peter prudently didn’t try to follow him. Neal would have picked up Peter’s tail in a heartbeat. Instead, the wily Federal Agent, who wasn’t an agent today, removed a key from his own keyring and entered the bakery.

“Excuse me,” Peter said quietly to the mature grey-haired proprietress behind the counter. “The man who just left dropped this,” he explained as he showed her the object in his palm. “I couldn’t catch up to him. Would you happen to know where he lives so that I can return it to him?”

Thankfully, this lady was fluent in English. “Ooh, Mon Dieu! I am quite sure Nicholas would most certainly appreciate that very much. He lives just down the way in the tall stone building with the black shutters. He rents a garret on the top floor.”

Peter smiled, but his face became serious as he turned towards the door. “Well, Burke, it’s now or never,” he silently told himself as he began to walk away. “Either slay your demons or make peace with them.”

It was just as the matronly lady said—a few steps down the street was a venerable old edifice that had probably stood on this very spot for at least two centuries. European cities seemed to value and preserve their past icons instead of razing them for monstrosities made of glass and steel. The worn oak stairs within the grand dame of a bygone era groaned with each of Peter’s footsteps, but the intricate wrought iron railing was stalwart and secure. It was a tedious climb to the top floor, and as Peter went higher and higher, his anger rose proportionately, as well. By the time he was standing in front of the garret’s entrance, he had trouble keeping his composure. When Neal opened the door after his knock, the former “dead” man stood before his past handler with a slight smile on his face. Looking neither shocked nor amazed, he merely murmured quietly, “Hello, Peter.”

It was at that very second that Peter lost it. He strode into Neal’s personal space and slammed the door behind him while seething out the words, “You bastard!” Before Neal could react, a crazed man’s hands were encircling his neck and squeezing the breath from his lungs. The threatened man brought his own hands up to his throat, as well, as he tried to tear Peter’s away. It was a dangerous waltz across the wooden floor into an adjacent wall. An easel was upended and nearby canvases went flying. When Neal began to sag under the attack, Peter finally released the choke hold and dragged his target to the nearby bed. He pressed his mouth crushingly onto Neal’s before savagely biting his lower lip and falling atop the young man’s now unsteady form. Neal was gasping and trying to wriggle out of Peter’s embrace, but the assault continued as Peter began blindly tearing at his victim’s clothes. A sweater was ripped and jeans were yanked down, and suddenly Neal found himself flipped onto his stomach with his upper arms being pinned by strong bruising fingers. His agonized yelp was muffled by the mattress when Peter rammed into him. The onslaught continued with fevered intensity until Neal felt the hot fluid spurt inside him with a scorching force. Peter then collapsed down onto the still figure and struggled to get his breathing, as well as his rampantly spiraling emotions and passion, under control.

After the raspy sounds of arousal and anger had subsided, a horribly ashamed assailant rolled off the pliant man beneath him. Peter was mortified and stared up at the ceiling until he could finally trust his shaky whisper. “Neal, what just happened, it was surreal, like I was standing outside of myself watching a depraved sadist inflict pain in the heat of the moment. My God, there’s only one word for it, and that word is rape! Never, in a million years, would I have thought I was capable of something like that.”

At first the victim of the sexual assault didn’t answer, but then he slowly turned over and responded just as quietly. “I think what just happened was the result of a lot of pent up rage spewing out.”

“Maybe,” Peter agreed just as softly, “but I need to say that I’m so very sorry that I hurt you even though that excuse seems really lame and inadequate,” Peter replied with a hitch in his voice.

“Shouldn’t that be my line, Peter?” Neal asked in a flat tone of voice.

Seconds ticked by until Peter responded. “Maybe that’s our karma,” the older man finally said miserably while avoiding looking at his former partner. “We’re always somehow destined to hurt the people we love. I did love you, Neal, with all of my being.”

“But you don’t love me now,” Neal finished the sentence. “Maybe, now that you know about the deception, you find that it’s easier to hate me.”

“I hate what you did,” Peter agreed. “Do you even have any idea how a part of my heart died when you ‘died?’ I mourned you every day. And then, I felt like a duped stupid fool after Mozzie carried out his part in the plot. He was probably snickering behind his hands all the way home because he was in on your little drama the whole time.”

“Mozzie found out about me just days before you did, Peter. There was no conspiracy going on behind your back these past months,” Neal reassured his former partner.

“Why didn’t you trust me enough to keep your secret, Neal? Just tell me that,” Peter pleaded.

“I couldn’t make you complicit in a crime, Peter,” Neal whispered. “It had to be a clean and plausible break so that no one would have any suspicions that you may have been involved. I wanted—no, I needed—to start over again and have a real life. I was never going to have the opportunity to get that chance in New York. I was like a drowning man and I had to save myself.”

Peter sighed. “Well, what you did had me drowning as well, and it took months for me to break the surface and breathe again.”

“Peter, you had a good life in New York—a wife, a child on the way, and a solid career. You had people who admired you and looked up to you. You weren’t exactly all alone starting from ground zero in an effort to build a new persona,” Neal said in his own defense.

“Yeah, I did have all of those things, but I also once had you,” Peter persisted. “Then, in one heart- breaking moment, I was viewing your body in a morgue. I assumed that you were gone from my life forever and nothing else seemed to matter.”

“That’s not fair to Elizabeth, Peter, and neither is it fair to your little son,” Neal argued. “They deserve all of you, not somebody with part of his mind still mired down in the past.”

“So, if you were being so noble, then why did you practically ensure that I would cross an ocean to find you?” Peter wanted to know. “Why now? For once in your life, tell the God’s honest truth, Neal. Tell me why!”

After a long silence, Peter got his answer. “I missed you, Peter, because I still love you,” Neal whispered wretchedly. “I know that’s a selfish and indefensible reason for disrupting your life yet again, but you wanted the truth and there it is. I feel somehow incomplete like a part is missing.”

“Like a phantom limb?” Peter asked as he finally stared into Neal’s eyes.

“Yeah, exactly like that,” Neal murmured.

“So, what happens now?” Peter asked.

“I guess that depends on you,” Neal answered. “Now that you’ve seen that I’m alive and well, can you get on with the rest of your life? Are you willing to let me go so that I can become part of your past?”

“Are you really content, Neal?” Peter challenged. “Are you truly happy living a bohemian life in a tiny attic. From what I can see, all that you seem to own is a bed, a table, some easels, and a bunch of canvases too numerous to count. I always thought that you aspired to reach greater heights.”

“I lived in June’s loft for almost four years and that space had about the same square footage. It sure beats a claustrophobic jail cell,” Neal shot back. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“What about us? Are you content to just leave things as they are?” Peter asked poignantly.

“There is no _‘us’_ any longer, Peter,” Neal said adamantly. “There’s you and El and my little namesake. That should be your future. Maybe in another time and in another place, we may have worked. But that’s not the present reality.”

“I could try to make it work,” a troubled man answered softly.

“Please don’t,” Neal said sadly.

“Do you really mean that, Neal?” Peter demanded to know.

The young man sighed and gave Peter the full wattage of his blue eyes. “Not really, but after all that’s happened, it’s the most unselfish thing I can do.”

Peter pulled his former lover to his chest and tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Let me love you, Neal, today and always.”

The sex this time was sweet and almost melancholy. Each man took his time finding the erotic spots that they knew so well from months of practice. They teased and titillated until the urgency overwhelmed them. Finally, they came together like two pieces of a puzzle to form a whole. When the sun finally started to set and sent shafts of anemic rays of the spectrum through the wavy old glass panels of the window, Peter kissed Neal softly and whispered, “I love you, Neal, and I always will.”

Neal’s response was sadly brief as he snuggled close to his partner’s chest. “I know, Peter. As I said before, maybe in another time and in another place we would have been different people, and perhaps then we could have made it work.”

Peter said nothing because the determined wheels in an “archeologist’s” head began turning, digging deep to find an answer to unravel a quandary. He always welcomed a challenge, and this one was of paramount importance with long-lasting implications. There had to be a solution and he was going to find it!

~~~~~~~~~~

Another time and another place was unfolding eighteen months later in a quaint little pied-a-terre just outside of Paris. Three people and a toddler had become an ex-pat family unit and were living new lives and reveling in every minute. Elizabeth, thanks to Neal’s hidden assets, was able to open an outrageously popular restaurant that usually had people standing in line beyond its doors. The now famous eatery, located on trendy Rue de la Huchette, was aptly named, _“An American in Paris_ ,” an homage to an old 1950s Hollywood movie starring Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. It featured thick Louisiana gumbo, Kansas City steaks, Maryland crab cakes, and Maine lobster, to name just a few of the entrees. Eager sophisticated diners found it to be quite a welcome change from frog legs and foie gras. Each evening, El would glide between the tables and chat with her patrons. She was still a beautiful woman and her unexpected second pregnancy added a very special glow to her face.

Peter also had a new career under way. After giving the FBI twenty of the best years of his life, he opted to take early retirement. But the ambitious man was far from idle. Eventually, he had approached the proper people in the French hierarchy of crime prevention and, because of his background and impressive FBI resume, found his niche in something called _Tracfin_ , an arm of the French Ministry of Finance. That department of state had a mandate to fight money laundering as well as terrorism financing. It was nice, at this late stage in his life, to sit out the dangerous stakeouts and wild car chases. Now his down time was spent puttering around the house. He diligently refinished the hardwood flooring in the third bedroom and watched Neal paint a scene from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling. It was the iconic one of God reaching out a hand to infuse life into Adam.

“Shouldn’t you be painting little bunnies and baby ducks on the walls instead of something so sophisticated?” Peter asked Neal one night. “After all, this is a little infant that you’re preparing to welcome.”

Neal smiled serenely. “It’s never too early to introduce art masterpieces, Peter. Besides, the future occupant of this room will be _my_ finest creation, so I think it’s fitting.”

Peter smiled in contentment. Neal was beyond happy, and over the last months he had kept doing exactly what he had been previously doing, protecting the security of the Louvre as well as continuing to paint. With Peter and El’s encouragement, he was gaining popularity in the art world under a pseudonym, and his works were selling with an impressive price tag attached. Approaching fatherhood was the pièce de résistance in his now fulfilled life.

Even though Neal, Peter, and Elizabeth were the same people, in this microcosm of another time and another place, they made it work. They had assimilated a comfortable “in the moment” existence, and never looked back. Actually, life couldn’t have been better.

**Author's Note:**

> This 22nd story marks the end of the “White Collar Discussions” Series. If you have been following along in this anthology, or just dropped in a time or two, I hope you may have enjoyed the fictions. I know the show concluded years ago and readership has drastically dwindled, but since it gives me pleasure, I’ll still continue to write about Peter and Neal for a while longer. I still have stories, some multi-chaptered, languishing on my laptop. If you are one of those diehard, loyal White Collar readers, keep an eye out for them soon. The first one is entitled “The Alphabet Killer.”


End file.
